Six Smoking Barrels
by XTheTr00perX
Summary: John Marston is hot on the trail of Bill Williamson.  But in a land where information is power, and loyalties change quicker than the pull of a trigger, he may be in over his head.  Based on RD:R.  Contains violence and some swearing.  Reviews appreciated


The tattered hem of John Marston's duster billowed out behind him as wind streamed between his legs. He clutched the top of his hat and bowed his head to stop the sand from blowing into his eyes, tucking one side of his coat under the holster of his revolver and holding the other tight against his waist.

"How you likin' these winds, John?" the marshal bellowed over the gale. The portly lawman hunkered against the side of a wagon up the hill a little way, using it as a shield against the storm.

John peered up at him sideways. "I've had enough of 'em," he shouted back. "I didn't think you meant it when you said half the fight would be against the damn weather! I should've taken you at your word!"

Sand drifted over the area. Small mounds of it gathered on top of the wagon's canvas and piled against the wheels, burying them. The oxen, moored and unable to escape the sandstorm, turned their heads and bellowed miserably.

John held his hat firmly, ignoring the sharp sting of sand hitting his wrist. "Way I see it," he shouted, "the sooner we get what we came for, the sooner we can get away from 'em."

Slowly the wind died down. After a few minutes, it was little more than a breeze. John straightened himself, brushing the sand off his hat and shoulders, and squatted down to lift the barrel he'd been forced to abandon when the sandstorm took up. Wrapping his fingers around the bottom rim, he hoisted it with a grunt and took awkward, staggering steps uphill toward the wagon.

"And what exactly did we come here for, again?" the marshal said with a chuckle as John hefted the barrel onto the wagon bed, breaking off the staves where they had already been released. "Seems I've forgotten as we digress further and further from our mission."

John breathed out heavily and wiped away the beads of sweat on his forehead. "You know my mission, marshal."

The marshal smiled his crooked smile. "I know what you claim your mission is, but to be honest, John, I'm no longer convinced."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, you say you're after one man and yet in six months searching, we've not seen hide or hair of him. Meanwhile, I've watched you kill more men than I care to count."

"Not a soul killed that didn't deserve what it got."

"True though that may be, John," the marshal said, adjusting his bowler hat, "I can't help but notice that you killed every one of those men at the behest of a government. First it was for our government, dispensin' with the Bollard's Twins gang and other petty reprobates up in New Austin, but now you've sided with these Mexican Federales, fighting a war you've got no part in. Way I figure it, you're tryin' to get friends in high places. Maybe only to help you find this Wallenstein fellow, but still. Only question I have is, whose dirty work are you plannin' on doin' next, John? You aim to help out the rebels, too?"

John stared at him for a moment. "Williamson," he said. "I'm here for Williamson, and nothin' more." He turned and walked to the pile of barrels by the wrecked stagecoach, lifting another and bringing it back to the wagon.

The marshal helped him ease it onto the wagon bed. "If you're here for Williamson, why do we waste so much time doin' the bidding of men we ought not to have gotten involved with at all?"

John shrugged. "Information ain't free, marshal. You know that. You gotta do work to get what you want, especially down here in Perdido."

"Work?" The marshal's gaze drifted over the wreckage. Bullet holes riddled the stagecoach, and the horses lay awkwardly where they had fallen, still attached to the harness, a few of them slumped over the bodies of their riders. Wisps of black smoke rose from the large charred hole where the door had been. "You and I have very different definitions of work, Marston."

"Work is work."

"This is murder."

"Sometimes murder is work." He heaved another barrel onto the wagon bed. While the marshal worked to slide it toward the back with the others, John opened his cowhide flask and took a swig of water. It was warm, but not all too unpleasant. Better than the garbage he had had to drink at the crossing of the San Luis.

As he twisted the cap back on, he looked up at the marshal. "Besides, you say that like you didn't help me kill them."

The marshal's mustache curled as he frowned. "Who do you blame for murder, John, the gun or the man who pulled the trigger?"

"What are you implyin', that I made you kill them?"

The marshal shook his head. "Not you. You're nothin' more than a gun, either, Marston. We're both guns, hired by the damn Mexican government to do their dirty work."

John croaked a laugh. "I suppose that's one way of lookin' at it."

"It's the damn truth. They're makin' us kill these rebels, John. They're the ones pullin' the trigger, not us."

"That ain't the truth, marshal, and you know it. The work's not compulsory. We could go back to New Austin and they would hardly notice our absence. Besides," he added, "I never asked you to accompany me down here."

"Not compulsory?" the marshal said, ignoring the last bit. "Then explain to me why we take care of their every command. Explain to me why, from all indications, we are at their beck and call, John."

"Every man has his price, marshal."

"What does that even mean?"

John gave him a level look. "I told you. I'm here for Williamson."

They worked in silence for a while. When the last of the barrels was on the wagon, John sighed and wiped his hands clean on his pants. "Let's be on our way before the winds pick up again."

"You won't hear any argument from me," the marshal said. He smiled crookedly. "You want to steer or man the gun?"

"I'll take the gun," he said, already halfway up the ladder to the nest of the Gatling. When he reached the top, he kicked the trap door shut and took hold of the crank and aiming column. It was a nasty device, he thought as he looked down at it. Six barrels revolved around a central shaft that rotated as he turned the crank, all of it black as midnight. The newspapers called it a revolutionary piece of machinery, but in truth it was nothing more than a glorified death machine.

_Better than having to handle the oxen, though_, he thought wryly.

The marshal whipped the reins twice. "Heeyaw!" The axles creaked as the oxen moved forward with indignant bellows. It took a moment to crest the hill, but their pace picked up considerably when they reached the road. The oxen couldn't match horses for speed, but they were reliable, and no pair of horses could pull the weight they did. Not that John could afford, anyway.

"The barrels are weighin' us down," the marshal shouted back at him. "At this rate, I don't see us makin' it to Escalera 'til nightfall."

John sighed and pulled a long cigarette out of his pocket. "Damn it," he muttered when he realized it was the last one he had. He lit a match and held it up to the tip, cupping a hand around the flame to block it from the breeze. When it caught, he took a long draw. The smoke roiled from his nostrils.

It was several hours before they crossed paths with another traveler, a Mexican with a tattered poncho and dusty sombrero, on a donkey that swayed dangerously with every step. John wasn't surprised that the roads were empty; he had spent enough time in Perdido to know it was mostly deserted during the day. Most of the Perdidans waited until nightfall to take care of their business, and he didn't blame them—the heat was sweltering. The desert on both sides of the dirt road shimmered with it.

When the traveler was long in the distance, the marshal turned and said, "Why do you bother with these damn oxen, John? That damn burro moved faster than us."

"I found them preferable to the starved nags that are so bountiful in these…_lush_ deserts. If I'm goin' to get a horse, it may as well be a nice one."

"Why not buy yourself a real nice horse, then? A Hungarian Half-Bred, or a Kentucky Saddler? You can find both in Chuperosa. Real cheap, too. You could probably snag find one for no more than fifty dollars."

"I don't have that kind of money, marshal, and if I did, I'd use it to buy supplies."

Again, the marshal smiled his crooked smile. "Steal one."

John gave him a disgusted look. "What do you think I am, marshal, some petty thief?"

"I know what you were," the marshal said, shrugging. "Way I see it, things don't change much."

John scowled and used adjusting his grip on the Gatling gun as an excuse to turn away. The charcoal-black barrels pointed down at the road uselessly. He pulled back on the aiming column and watched the barrels rise, suddenly poised for attack. The metal contraption wasn't good for a thing until a man took hold of it. _Me, nothin' more than a gun_, he thought pensively. He dismissed the notion with a shake of his head. _That's just foolish._

A few minutes later, he answered. "People don't give credence to an outlaw changin' his ways." The marshal looked back at him over his shoulder, but didn't respond.

The sun dipped below the mountains and the sky turned orange. John's stomach rumbled. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a small package wrapped in foil, the prickly pear he had plucked from a cactus on the way to the ambush site. If there was anything the desert was good for, John thought, it was cactus fruit. He popped a chunk of the pear into his mouth and savored the sweet juices for a moment before washing it down with a swig of water.

As the flask left his lips, the marshal shouted from up front, "We've got company, John! Ready the gun!"

John cursed under his breath, stuffing the foil back into his satchel and twisting the cap on the flask. He craned his head to look for movement, but saw nothing more than an armadillo skittering through the sun-scorched bushes. "Where at, marshal?"

"Two o'clock!"

John glanced over his shoulder and saw them riding ahead and to the right of the marshal. There were eight, at least, all on horseback and with weapons raised, pointed at the wagon. He pivoted the Gatling gun as far to the left as he could, but it would not go far enough—the gun was positioned to be fired at attackers in pursuit of the wagon, not ahead of it.

A bullet whizzed by overhead. He ducked instinctively, reaching for his hat.

"Christ!" the marshal screamed. "I think it's the rebels come to avenge their friends!"

"How could they know about the stagecoach already?"

"Couldn't tell you, John!" the marshal shouted back. "Just get ready!"

Putting it out of his mind, John wriggled his fingers around the handhold of the crank and waited for the rebels to pass the wagon. Bullets flew by, some hitting the wagon with thunks.

_At least they've got terrible aim, _he thought. Just after, a bullet skimmed his cheek. He jerked back and swore loudly, brushing a hand across the small wound. He held it up to the sunlight. Crimson glistened on the glove.

"As if I didn't have enough scars already," he growled.

At the first sign of movement, he turned the crank madly. Bullets sprayed out of the barrels and the horse and rider toppled. Dust billowed up around them as they hit the ground. The second attacker raised his six-gun to fire but was thrown from the saddle with a yelp before he could get a shot off. More rebels sped past the wagon, jerking reins sharply to turn their horses around.

Bullets zinged by. Holes pierced the wagon's canvass. John kept up the fire, but for every rebel he downed, two more joined the fight. A bullet clipped his ear. Ignoring the pain, he ducked his head and cranked faster.

One of the rebels took a shot to the throat, and another took two to the chest. A third slouched forward in his saddle, blood drizzling down onto the pommel. Horses with empty saddles galloped past the wagon, some dragging their riders along behind them.

The Gatling spit out cartridges like rocks kicked out of a twister, clanking as they filled the bottom of the nest. Dust rose as two more horses slammed into the ground, taking their riders with them to the grave.

More bullets flew by from behind. John swiveled the gun around without slowing his hand. He counted a dozen more men, all of them unmistakably rebels, from their painted faces to the tattered ponchos they wore. The Gatling mowed them down like sheep at the slaughter.

Suddenly, the wagon hit a bump and one of the barrels bounced off the wagon bed. It split against the ground, spilling its contents across the road.

"Shit!" the marshal shouted, looking over his shoulder at the lost barrel. "Get down there and tie down those damn barrels, Marston! There's a rope down there somewhere!"

"What about the rebels?"

"We'll be fine, just worry about securing the cargo!"

Muttering under his breath, John shot down three more rebels before kicking open the trap door and sliding down the ladder. More cartridges than he could count littered the wagon bed. He searched for the rope and found it shoved in one of the corners, soaked in kerosene from a nearby broken lantern. "Damn it, marshal, you forgot your only job."

He crouched by the nearest barrel and began tying the rope, but the kerosene made the hemp slip through his fingers. He tightened his grasp on it. Just when he almost had a knot tied, the wagon hit another unexpected bump and he lost his grip. When he regained his balance, he picked up the rope and started again, but was thrown onto his back as the wagon veered to the right.

"Jesus, marshal, get it under control!" he shouted, struggling to his feet. He heard a loud thump, another barrel hitting the road.

John was back on his feet for only a moment before another swerve sent him flying forward. Nearly falling out of the wagon, he grunted and caught himself. For a moment the wagon ran straight, and he looked at the deeply-rutted road rushing by below him. In the distance was another barrel, unbroken, and by it lay the marshal, his body bloodied and filled with bullet holes.

He stared for a moment, disbelieving. "Shit."

Motes of dust swirled and glittered in the sunlight that shined through the holes in the canvas. Despite the marshal's death, the gunfire continued, and more bullets pierced the canvas. They must have wanted to destroy the wagon and acquire the Gatling gun for their own. That or they wanted John dead, and somehow knew he was still alive down there.

The wagon careened violently and dipped to the right as one of the wheels shattered.

"Whoa," he groaned, reaching out for a handhold. Barrels rolled out of the bed, but he made no attempt to stop them. He was done worrying about the cargo. He needed to worry about his life.

The remaining wheels turned to splinters and the wagon flipped. John flipped with it, trying desperately to find something to hold onto. The remaining barrels bounced around him, the wagon shaking them like a cup in a game of Liar's Dice. One of them knocked the hat off his head, and as he thrust his hand out to catch his hat, another barrel rammed into his chest.

With a painful grunt, John flew from the wagon. His back slammed into the ground and dust rose up around him. Slowly he rolled to a stop. He lay there for a moment, moaning and listening to the sounds of the rebels slowing their horses by the wrecked wagon. They shouted things he couldn't understand, but he could tell from the inflections that whatever they were looking for, it was not in the wagon.

Pain lanced through his body as he struggled to his feet. Too lightheaded to sprint, he staggered off the road and headed west, or at least what he thought was west. More than once the desert plants tripped him up. It wasn't long before one caught his foot and he collapsed.

His vision faded. He saw the world through a tunnel filled with dark, swimming shapes, and the end of it was slowly shrinking away. As a last effort, he propped himself up on his elbows and tried to raise his head, but his arms gave. His back hit the ground, and he blacked out, only vaguely aware of his arms and legs being bound with rope.


End file.
